


Being Brave

by georgiamagnolia



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Angst, Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-10
Updated: 2011-07-10
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgiamagnolia/pseuds/georgiamagnolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is in charge of Napoleon as he recovers from yet more THRUSH evil, at least he hopes that Napoleon will recover.</p><p>((originally posted elsewhere June 2K10))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Brave

“Can you tell me your name?”

His head shakes no, arms crossed and frowning.

“Do you know what day it is?”

Still the shaking head and the frowning, chin tucked down now, eyes downcast.

A nurse walks in, startling him and he looks up at his questioner with a look that might have been terror but was quickly covered by a grim determined stubbornness. He tucked his chin down again and tried to shrink smaller, arms crossed even harder, as if holding himself away from something.

Another man enters the room and walks past the nurse and the doctor to lean on the edge of the exam table. He ignores them and speaks softly, “I am sorry I was gone so long. Are you ready to go now?”

“Now wait just one minute…” the doctor is interrupted by a voice from the hall.

“Dr. Weggner, Miss Scott, if you please?” And the two responded immediately, called to the hall by their employer and Number One of Section One, Alexander Waverly. It never did to ignore his summons.

“Eeelie-ah, is it time to go home now?”

“Yes, it is.” He saw that there were shoes on a chair, so he went to get them, when he came back, sock covered feet were kicking back and forth. He took one and slid a shoe on, bracing the foot on his thigh to tie the lace and then repeated the process. When he was done he looked up into curious eyes.

“Is is Saturday? Saturday is goin’ to the park day. And if I’m good sometimes when we get home I can have cocoa and a story. I wish it was Saturday.”

“Would you like to go to the park?”

“Yes. But I’m not dressed for the park.” He looked down at his clothes, then back up. “These are Sunday goin’ to meetin’ clothes. I have to wear dungarees for the park.”

“Well, it isn’t Saturday, but perhaps we could have cocoa when we get home.”

“I’ll be good.”

“I know you will.” He reached out to offer a hand of help off the exam table and wasn’t very surprised when Napoleon took his hand and did not let go as Illya led him out of Medical Section and through halls of UNCLE New York. Napoleon kept his head down and shied from the white clad nurses and doctors, trying his best to tuck himself behind his slighter companion. Illya thought it might be amusing on another day, but today it just broke his heart. Who was this frightened little boy that had taken up residence in his partner’s skin? And who in THRUSH was he going to have to torture the formula out of to return his annoyingly suave partner to him?

***

“He has answered all the questions to the best of his ability, which is to say, not at all. He just does not know who he is or where he is or what year it is or much of anything, in fact. We are working as fast as we can to determine the formula used on him. We think that THRUSH was trying to create a drug to counteract the Capsule B, but if that is what they have come up with, I would have to say it was an abject failure. All they have accomplished is to reduce the target to the mental age of a small child, with no memories at all of the world. While it might be a nice mental vacation for a time, it is certainly not going to speed up the affects of Capsule B. Under normal circumstances, Mr. Solo would regain his normal memories in another day, two at the most. With the added chemicals from THRUSH, there is no telling what will happen.”

The doctor seemed to finally wind down and Illya spoke up. “I would like to take him home now. He will not be helped by more poking and prodding and the best thing for him now will be home, things that will seem familiar if only on a subconscious level might help, or at least let him be less fearful. I have never seen a human so scared and it cannot be good either for his health or his mental state.”

The doctor nodded, to Illya’s surprise. “I agree. He seems to have bonded to Mr. Kuryakin, much like a duckling will sometimes bond to the first animal it encounters on hatching. I will also point out that he refuses to speak to anyone but Mr. Kuryakin, so it is pointless to even try. I am sure I hold the minority opinion in this, but I think home may be the best place for now. Observing him in an empty Medical Section room is going to be no help to him or us.”

Illya nodded a silent thank you to the doctor and looked to Mr. Waverly, who was deep in contemplation of an unlit pipe full of tobacco. He slipped the pipe into his pocket and stood.

“Yes, I think you are both right, though it will take some convincing of the rest of the Medical staff.” He walked to the door, then looked over his shoulder, “Shall we, gentlemen?” Both men silently followed.

***

The drive home was a quiet one. Napoleon sat in the passenger seat staring out at the traffic, closing his eyes when the loud honking and tire screeching taxis sped past them. He remained quiet as Illya led him to the elevator and watched as Illya pushed the button for the penthouse. Illya let them in and relocked the door and set the alarms while Napoleon stood in the small entryway.

“Where are we Eeelie-ah?”

“We are home.”

“Your home?”

“No, but close. This is your home. I live downstairs.”

Napoleon looked around, as if for a staircase. “Where downstairs?”

“In another apartment. But I am staying here until you feel better.”

“I feel good.”

“I know you do, but until you remember some more things, I will stay here. That is alright with you, isn’t it?”

“Of course, Eeelie-ah. I like you.”

“I like you too, Napoleon.”

“Nah-poh-lee-on. It sounds funny when you say it, nice. Not like those mean men, they said it too much. They were unhappy with me.”

They had moved to the living room and Napoleon was sitting on the edge of the couch, as if unaware that he could sit back and still reach the floor with both feet.

“Which men were those?”

“White coat men. Birdies on their sleeves men.”

Illya sat next to his partner, waiting for more, wanting to ask questions but knowing that if he just let Napoleon talk he would get better results. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep in the rage at the THRUSH who had done this.

“You saved me from the birdie men. Thank you.”

“You are always welcome, my friend.” Illya’s voice was quiet.

“Am I your friend?”

“Always.”

Napoleon sighed a very big sigh that heaved his shoulders up and down, then he leaned over and laid his head on Illya’s shoulder, seeming not to notice that he had to bend slightly to do so. Illya made a mental note that an effect of the drug was a change in awareness, perhaps some kind of spatial displacement. He let Napoleon keep his head there and gently leaned them both against the couch back while he thought about what their next move should be. Dinner maybe. He didn’t need to worry since the choice was made when Napoleon fell asleep. Illya grinned at his slumbering partner, and realized it had been nearly twenty four hours since either of them had slept. A few minutes nap on the couch couldn’t hurt.

***

It turned out to be nearer a half an hour and Illya was awakened by the change in Napoleon’s breathing. He was breathing fast, not relaxed, nearly gasping. Illya sat up and Napoleon came awake with a look of complete fear, then recognized Illya and relaxed.

“You’re ok.”

Napoleon nodded, but the look on his face said he wasn’t sure he did agree.

“Bad dream?”

Napoleon nodded, fear mixed with relief on his face this time.

“Sometimes it helps if you talk about it.”

“Birdies. Runnin’ from birdies.” Napoleon sighed. “It’s not brave to run away.”

“Sometimes the bravest thing is to run and find a friend to help you.”

“You’re my friend.”

“I am.”

“And you would help me be brave.”

“I would.”

Napoleon nodded, no longer solemn, beaming a smile at Illya as if something terribly important was decided.

***

Dinner was simple, soup and sandwiches. Napoleon seemed happy enough, though Illya was disturbed at the amount of ketchup he poured on his roast beef sandwich, but that had nothing to do with the drug. Napoleon normally liked ketchup. Illya made another mental note about the drug, it didn’t seem to disturb culinary tastes. He wasn’t sure if that had significance.

After dinner was the promised cocoa. Illya stood at the stove, stirring sugar and chocolate powder into warming milk while Napoleon looked at the bookshelves.

Illya sat the cocoa on the table to cool and joined his partner in the living room. “Do you see something you like?” All the books were Napoleon’s, something would have to appeal.

Napoleon had been running his fingers over the leather bindings on one shelf, tapping the spines of the books and then tracing the embossed titles. He turned to Illya and looked very sad. “I can’t read those. They’re too big.”

Illya looked at the shelf he had been so fascinated with; the works of Mark Twain. “Shall I read to you then?”

“Yes, please.” Napoleon folded his hands and looked hopeful.

“Would you like to hear about the adventures of Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn?”

“Huk’berry is a funny name. Like mine. And yours.”

“Huckleberry it is then. Let’s have our cocoa and then I will read to you until you fall asleep.”

“Thank you, Eeelie-ah.”

***

It had taken nearly four chapters for Napoleon to go to sleep, he had fought the drooping eyes and yawns as hard as he could. Just getting his partner as far as the bed had been a struggle. First Napoleon was taken with the large tub in the master bath, speculating on how many boats could be sailed in the garden tub. Then he had wanted pyjamas with cowboys on them. Illya was not familiar with the contents of Napoleon’s drawers but felt certain that there were no “cowboy jammas” in them. Tucked in the back of the bottom dresser drawer was a pair of red pyjamas with a gold dragon embroidered on the shirt, the tail of the dragon continuing down one side of the pants. Napoleon allowed as how dragons were almost as wonderful as cowboys and agreed to wear them. Illya couldn’t help but wonder what his partner would say about the red silk pyjamas when he came back to himself. Illya refused to contemplate any outcome that was not Napoleon back to a hundred percent himself.

He picked up the clothes off the floor, sorting them into the hamper and the bag for the dry cleaners. He left the light on in the master bath and shut the door to a crack so it would serve as a nightlight and then turned to pull the covers up over Napoleon’s shoulders. Illya could see now why Napoleon always slicked his hair down and kept it nearly military short. It had a tendency to curl just slightly and there was a lock of hair that insisted on falling over his brow, only serving to enhance the childlike quality Napoleon was currently displaying.

Illya crept down the hall, quietly cleaned up the cocoa cups and pan and then fell into the guest bed, exhausted.

***

It was dark and he was disoriented when he woke to someone trying to burrow under him. Lightning fast, images and sensations blurred through his memory, four and five children sleeping to a bed in his childhood, crowded submarines where shipmates didn’t care if their buddy was out of the bunk before hot racking, UNCLE missions where they were sometimes lucky to get a motel with hot water, let alone separate beds. Napoleon was trying his best to subsume himself under Illya. He was shaking. Illya reached out and felt silk and heavy embroidery under his palm. He muttered soothing words as Napoleon stilled and then he flicked on the light to see fear filling the dark eyes of his friend.

“Nightmares again?”

Napoleon nodded. His voice was so quiet that Illya had to lean close to hear his words. “You will help me be brave?”

“I will. Let’s get you back in your bed, there isn’t enough room in this bed for you, too.”

Napoleon bit his lip and finally nodded, standing and waiting for Illya to join him. Illya walked his partner down the hall.

“Will you stay until I’m sleeping?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, Napoleon. Lie down now.” Illya pulled the covers back over Napoleon and sat on the edge of the bed. Napoleon reached out and took his hand.

“I’m sorry. I tried to be brave.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Just birdies. White coats.” Napoleon yawned. “They chased. I hid.” He yawned again, then snuggled into the pillow and held Illya’s hand tighter.

Illya reached out and stroked the hair off Napoleon’s forehead, pushing the stubborn lock of hair back. The light from the bath showed Napoleon’s eyes closed. Illya started humming, then softly singing a lullaby he barely remembered from his own childhood.

Napoleon’s breathing finally deepened and his grip on Illya’s hand became slack. Illya stood and walked back to his room, picked up his pillow and the gun under it, pulled a blanket off the bed and returned to Napoleon’s room. He made a bed for himself on the chaise under the window and fell asleep less quickly than he would have liked.

***

The first day they stuck close to home. Illya needed to visit his apartment and get clean clothes and his shaving kit, perishables from his refrigerator. Napoleon thought it a grand adventure, was fascinated with the phonograph. So Illya showed him how to work it and pulled out a few albums he thought might appeal. Mostly he had jazz, which had never been a favourite of Napoleon’s, but he was amused enough with the workings of the phonograph not to notice the selection. Illya did a few chores that needed done while Napoleon sat on the floor with the records.

“These are nice, Eeelie-ah. I like this lady the best, but her voice is sad. I wonder why her voice is sad.” Napoleon held up a record jacket for Illya to see.

“Singing is kind of like acting, Napoleon, the song is sad so the lady’s voice sounds sad. This other lady sings happy songs so her voice sounds different.”

“And acting is like pretending.”

“Yes it is, very good.” Illya smiled down at Napoleon who was beaming at him again. No wonder all the secretaries at work were smitten, Illya was pretty sure that smile could get Napoleon all the stories and cocoa he wanted later tonight. He wondered if it was a learned charm that had become subconscious to his partner, or if it was simply his natural state of being. That might prove an interesting study at some point later. Right now he needed to get the food and suitcase and Napoleon back upstairs.

“Let’s put these away and go back upstairs, it’s almost lunchtime.”

“Will we come back again someday?”

Illya was disconcerted, Napoleon had been in his apartment several times. Reality shook him and he nodded. “Of course. You know you have a record player of your own. Would you like to borrow one of those albums?”

“May I?” Napoleon sounded so pleased that Illya smiled again.

“Yes.”

Napoleon very carefully returned the large disk to its paper sleeve and then into the cardboard jacket, as he had seen Illya do. Illya put the other records away and they went to the door. After locking and setting the alarms, Illya led Napoleon back to the elevator. He elbowed the up button and the doors opened quickly. Inside he looked at Napoleon and asked him to press the button marked P for the penthouse level. Napoleon looked at him and then at the buttons. Then he looked back to Illya with a sadness in his dark eyes.

“It’s the one on the very top of the row.”

Napoleon reached out and tentatively pushed the button marked P. The elevator deposited them smoothly in the hall between the two penthouse apartments. Illya sat the box of groceries on the table outside their door and the suitcase at his feet, unlocking the door and disabling the alarm. Napoleon stood quietly, holding the phonograph album carefully, as if it were glass, a small line forming between his brows.

Illya opened the cupboard in the living room and set Napoleon to listening to his borrowed treasure while he put away the groceries and his suitcase.

When he came back to the living room, Napoleon was studying the back of the empty record jacket. Lee Wiley was singing about Manhattan.

“Would you like to learn some letters, Napoleon?”

Napoleon looked up at him and nodded.

Illya found some paper and a pencil in the desk and at the top of one page wrote out Napoleon’s name in block letters. They sat at the kitchen table and Napoleon copied his name perfectly. Illya wrote it in script and Napoleon copied it perfectly. Illya took the paper and thought for a moment, adjusted the angle of the paper and forged his partner’s signature, as he had done on countless reports for work. He sat it in front of Napoleon, who copied it perfectly. He hid the fact that this disturbed him and turned the paper over and wrote again, all the letters of the alphabet and Napoleon happily set to copying them out again and again, reciting the letters as he wrote. He hadn’t recognized them when Illya wrote them, but when Illya recited with Napoleon following along, he remembered every one. Illya left him to it, turned over the album and Lee sang about missing her love. Illya went to the guest room and took out his pen to call in to headquarters.

***

The second night Illya didn’t try to sleep in the guest room, but bunked down on the chaise again. In the middle of the night he woke to hear Napoleon breathing fast and could see that he was struggling against the blankets. He rose and sat on the edge of the bed, soothing out the lullaby from the night before and Napoleon quieted but didn’t wake, turning toward Illya’s voice and settling again. Illya waited, but Napoleon didn’t open his eyes. He retired to his vigil on the chaise, it took him a while to fall asleep again.

The second day they spent practicing letters and added numbers to the mix, listening to music on the radio and Illya read to Napoleon. They finished Huck Finn and started on Treasure Island. Illya checked in with work again from the guest room. No progress had been made on the blood tests. He hid his worry about this lack of development and went back to watch Napoleon happily listening to Lee Wiley again on the phonograph and drawing pictures to go with his letters. Illya noted the fact that the letters and pictures were obviously done by an adult hand. Perhaps his partner, his adult and sophisticated partner, lurked in that head still. He pretended to himself that this was encouraging.

The third night, Napoleon still fought sleep, begging for one more page, even as his eyes drooped and he tried to hide his yawns. Illya gave in and read until Napoleon slept.

He got himself ready for bed, made sure everything was cleaned up and locked tight. Illya settled in for another night on the chaise and tucked his gun under the pillow. Looking out the open curtains at the few stars that were visible over the night bright city, Illya sent a thought out to whatever benevolent influence might be listening that he wanted his partner back. He wanted his friend whole again.

***

He woke again to the sounds of Napoleon breathing fast, like he was running, and the struggle against the bedclothes. He went to sit on the edge of the bed and again soothed his friend with a lullaby and soft words. Napoleon again stilled and turned toward his voice. Illya waited, the faint light from the bath giving just enough glow to see that Napoleon woke tonight, his eyes looking up to Illya.

“Why are you singing me a Russian lullaby, _tovarisch_?” Napoleon sat up. “For that matter, why are you sitting on the edge of my bed in the dead of night?” Napoleon’s voice was even, a hint of amusement curling his mouth into a small smile.

“Napoleon?”

“Yes, Illya?”

“Napoleon!”

“We’ve established that, I think.” Napoleon grinned now, reaching out to turn on the bedside light. “You look like hell.”

“It’s sleeping on the chaise. Comfortable enough for one night, not for three.”

“Who on earth sleeps on those things? Is someone in the guest room? Why didn’t you just bunk with me in that case, it’s not like we haven’t before, and my bed is much better than the ones in the dives UNCLE books for us most of the time.”

“There is no one in the guest room, it was just easier to be here when you had the nightmares rather than making you come all the way down the hall to wake me. The guest bed is not big enough for the both of us.”

Napoleon just raised a brow at that, but let it go.

“What do you remember?”

“A lot of people asking my age.”

Illya flashed to his own memory of finding Napoleon and asking him questions; name, age, what city they were in. He saw again Napoleon holding his hand out, fingers splayed, then using his other hand to fold down the thumb on that hand.

“What on earth am I wearing?” Napoleon had looked down at his pyjamas.

“You insisted on ‘cowboy jammas’, which I am sure you do not own. The next best thing was a dragon. They were in the bottom drawer.”

“I haven’t owned pyjamas with cowboys on them since I was three, Illya.”

Illya only shrugged. “It’s been a very interesting few days, Napoleon.”

“Indeed, partner mine. I would have to guess so.” Napoleon yawned hard enough to pop his jaw.

“How about we continue this conversation later in the morning?”

“Yes, I think, ah, that is a fine plan.” Napoleon scrubbed his hands over his face. “Agh, what, did I lose my razor?”

“I didn’t feel up to explaining shaving to your four or five year old self, it was hard enough to convince you that your navy of boats for the tub was engaged in a training exercise elsewhere.”

Napoleon laughed. “Oh, I hope I remember that part.”

Illya smiled and went to gather the pillow and blanket and weaponry. He paused at the doorway and looked back, “I’ll be right down the hall, Napoleon, if you need me.”

“To help me be brave?”

Illya waited a moment, watching his partner’s eyes where he saw again that trusting little boy. “Yes, my friend. Always.”


End file.
